And every time she tries to find
|
The kind of love that won't leave her behind
|
She ends up feeling like some sort of shadow on the wall
|
|
Raised and braised on mysticism
|
Like Jesus flesh and cataclysmic
|
Punishment for following
|
The hunger her pleasure creates
|
|
She falls downstairs completely aware
|
It'll tarnish her beauty beyond all repair
|
The bruises that blossom remind her she's human
|
She hates that more than the fact
|
(So she)
|
|
She hides her fangs behind her back
|
She slips them in when no one's watching
|
Pretends to laugh
|
At the boxes she's been born in
|
She hides her fangs out in the open
|
Hoping somebody will steal them
|
And her
|
|
When she was young she held a fantasy
|
Of being the female Steve McQueen
|
Careening an ancient motorcycle
|
Through the throngs of those she hates
|
|
The spirit of sperm it haunts her thoughts
|
Like harnesses for golden swans
|
Her belly deserves a future much brighter
|
Than a hovel for a squatter
|
She chews her fingers down to the bone
|
Whenever she feels her life's out of control
|
She plays the piano, it sounds like tornadoes
|
But who will tell her the truth?
|
(I won't)
|
|
She hides her fangs behind her back
|
She slips them in when no one's watching
|
Pretends to laugh
|
At the boxes she's been born in
|
She hides her fangs out in the open
|
Hoping somebody will steal them
|
And her
|
|
Every time she tries to find
|
The kind of love that won't leave her behind
|
She ends up feeling like some sort of shadow on the wall
|
|
And I wish that I could provide
|
The kind of weapons money don't buy
|
Together we'd go hunting through
|
The hollows of our hearts
|
And kill the things that keep us down
|
And cut the strings to which our fears seem bound
|
You kiss the flicker of the flames that burn us out
|
From within
|
|
-----------------
|
Fangs
|
Man Man |